


Apadravya

by adraxsetimera



Series: Haikyuu One-shots [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Tattoos, Cunnilingus, Erotica, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Kissing, Making Out, Muscle Kink, Oral Sex, Piercings, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Reader-Insert, Rough Sex, Size Kink, Tattoos, University Student Bokuto Koutarou, Vaginal Sex, tatted!Bokuto, tatted!reader, university student reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:14:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24350401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adraxsetimera/pseuds/adraxsetimera
Summary: Apadravya: But what if this is just what social interaction is becoming? Why does the fact that we communicate electronically demean the intimacy of the communication?You practically choke on your coffee, sputtering wildly, and it's not only because you’ve never seen an intelligent comment scroll across the screen during this class before. Rather, you do a spit-take in the middle of class because you know what an Apadravya is.Or: reader is in uni and has a huge crush on Bokuto but is too shy to do much. Until one day, one comment turns everything around.
Relationships: Bokuto Koutarou/Reader
Series: Haikyuu One-shots [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1758037
Comments: 11
Kudos: 176





	Apadravya

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a long time ago. But recently I got into the Haikyuu! fandom and wanted to make a reader insert. My first post is Kuroo/Reader. But while editing this I also wanted to have Bokuto/Reader, so here is that version. Feel free to read Kuroo's version here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24350293
> 
> Please do not repost my work without consulting me first. Please DM me if you have any questions about posting/using my work as inspiration and I will let you know my guidelines.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Haikyuu! or it's characters.

Every day, he sits in the back of the room with his friends, sex and spitfire, metal and ink. You wander into the lecture hall, coffee in one hand, laptop bag in the other, your body so close to his as you allow yourself that one small brush against his leg, skirting past him in the narrow space between the rows of seats. Every day he nods at you as he lets you pass, a grin and a wink, and then those amber eyes are buried back behind his laptop screen, his attention absorbed, that mysterious mind engaged.

And every day, you are glad the screen possesses him; because if he could see how many times you glance at him throughout the lecture, he would know.

He would know how you want to run your hands across the lines of ink that wrap around his forearms, muscles flexing with every keystroke. How you think the little metal barbell inside your tongue would fit perfectly inside the loops that line his ear and his brow. How you want to brush your hands through the spiked grey and black hair, desperate to know how soft it might be.

Only he doesn't know that.

How could he?

It's not as if he ever looks at you.  _ Truly _ , look at you.

For an hour every day, you sit there at the opposite end of the row from him, ignoring the professor's less than insightful commentary on the material you have already read the night before. You hide behind your own glowing screen in the semi-dark, stealing furtive glances at the soft blue light dancing across his jawline and over the bridge of his nose, highlighting his sharp features.

And you worry sometimes that his friends must know. They must see the way you are always staring at him, only pretending to type, the chat window displayed across your screen just a ploy you use to hide your real reason for being in class each day.

Because it's your only chance to stare at him.

⇢⇢⇢⇢⇢⇢⇢⇢⇢⇢⇢⇢⇢⇢⇢⇢⇢⇢⇢⇢⇢⇢⇢⇢⇢⇢⇢⇢⇢⇢⇢⇢⇢⇢⇢⇢⇢⇢⇢⇢⇢⇢⇢

The professor stands at the front of the room, trying to pretend for all he is worth that his idea of teaching extends to the students in front of him. He wanted to share his ideals about social media. To let people know that it was good for the future, yet also how it could also be bad for human interactions. And so as the class sits there, listening to the incessant drone, they also stare at screens. A virtual discussion section in a 300 person lecture hall. Intimacy through anonymity.

Another opportunity for the dumbasses around you to pretend to know something.

The list of unoriginal usernames scrolls by day after day, their banal commentary on the professor's lecture driving you insane. All the suck-ups that are desperate for a TA's attention post the most idiotic things, and it's all you can do, to either throw the laptop across the room or post something about what you really think.

Suddenly, something interesting floats by, and you sit up a little straighter.

_ Rainydayzzz: Yes, prof is right. It's sad people text instead of talking. _

_ ~MetallicaRulez~: TA. Social interaction is dying and it's all Twitter's fault. There's no such thing as community any more. _

_ Apadravya: But what if this is just what social interaction is becoming? Why does the fact that we communicate electronically demean the intimacy of the communication? _

You practically choke on your coffee, sputtering wildly, and it's not only because you’ve never seen an intelligent comment scroll across the screen during this class before.

Rather, you do a spit-take in the middle of class because you know what an Apadravya is.

A quiet snicker rings out from the opposite end of the row, and as is your habit, your gaze shifts immediately in his direction.  And for the first time, those feline eyes full of mirth are staring right back at you.

He heard your reaction. He knows that you know what an Apadravya is.  Wait, does that mean that  _ he  _ knows what one is?

You break his gaze just long enough to take in the three silver hoops in the eyebrow he's quirking up at you, the pyramid stud of his labret below those lips that look like sin and honey, twisted up in a knowing smirk. Your eyes meet again for just one moment more, and in the wake of his amusement, you do what any mature, lust-driven woman out to entice the man she's been dreaming about for months would do when she realizes he might have a piercing in his cock.

You stick your tongue out at him.

He laughs at the gesture right up until you twist the tip of your tongue up, clacking the barbell against your teeth and dragging the line of it across your lip.

And then you bury your head back in the screen.  When did you ever get so bold?

Feeling the flames of embarrassment rising up your cheeks, you stare intently at Apadravya's comment and the stunned silence in the chat window that has gathered in its wake, willing your body to a calm.

And then, still emboldened, you begin to type. Your comment floats across the screen, and you sit back, pretending to focus on the lecture but really just trying with every shred of will you have not to look back over at the man whose presence burns through you from half a row of hard plastic seats away.

_ Ink: Yes, electronic media allows people to form attachments based on interest and education, not geography. Community can be strengthened instead of undermined. As Apadravya said, communication can be just as intimate, if not more so. _

A few seconds later, an alert pops up at the bottom of the screen.  Hmm, didn't even know they had private messaging on this thing.

_**Apadravya** : Intimate, you say? ;) _

You glance around wildly, looking everywhere for the person who might be behind that username. It does not fail to occur to you that the very object of your lust-filled daydreams is the most likely candidate, and you flush to think you might actually be 'talking' to him at this moment.

It would be the closest thing to actual contact you’ve had these thirteen weeks.

Intimacy, indeed. Words in intangible flashes of ones and zeros behind the pretty colors of an LCD. Communication without contact.

Even though contact is exactly what you crave.

Resuming the bravery you feigned earlier, you place your cursor in the new little chat window and reply,

_**Ink** : Absolutely. In fact I would go so far as to say that virtual intimacy has a leg up on personal experience in certain situations.There are lots of things I would type in a chat window that I might never dare say to a person's face. Online I am fiery and fierce. _

You do not add that you are anything but that in real life.

_**Apadravya** : I can tell. I like the spark of your fiery fierceness. It sets you apart from the sheep. _

_**Ink** : I like your willingness to stand up to the sheep. Your comment was the first intelligent thing I've read on here all semester. _

_**Apadravya** : Then yours was the second. _

Less than a minute goes by before he continues,

_**Apadravya** : much the same you know. _

_**Ink** : ? _

_**Apadravya** : Feeling more comfortable with virtual intimacy. I am fire and venom online. _

_**Ink** : Self-conscious and speechless IRL? _

_**Apadravya** : ...... _

There is a long pause in the series of messages from your mystery conversant, and you hazard one quick glance across the way at the other source of mystery in your life, wishing you could see what's on his screen. But as always, it's turned away from you. Allowing your eyes to settle for just a moment on his face, you see that he is absorbed again, his eyes trained fully in front of him, the glow from the monitor casting sharp highlights on the metal hoops that line his ear.

The metal loops you want to lick.

You can scarcely dare to hope that he's the one you've been chatting with, and you wrack your brain for something intelligent to say in the hopes of furthering this connection. But then your heart sinks to remember it could be anyone. It doesn't take an ink addict to have a barbell through your dick. Goodness knows you’ve found that out through experience.

Desperate to revive the conversation, you return it to its origins.

_**Ink** : So exactly what kind of intimacy do you pursue online? _

_**Apadravya** : Mostly gaming communities. Fantasy worlds like World of Warcraft. But I also engage in some artistic ones. Body modification for one. _

_**Ink** : I guessed as much from your screen name. _

_**Apadravya** : Recognized it did you? Most don't. It's a nice way to sort the enlightened from the sheep. _

There's no safe way to respond to that one, so you don't, just sitting there and basking in the fact that your dream lover might think that you’re enlightened. Fortunately, he picks right up again, changing the topic to save us both from an extended conversation about cock jewelry.

_**Apadravya** : How about you? You sounded pretty passionate about online communities yourself. _

The list of forums you troll in the lonely evenings flits through your mind, and you smile slyly at yourself, uncertain about exactly how much to reveal.

Considering again, you opt to stick with the simplest answer.

_**Ink** : I write. _

_**Apadravya** : ? _

You chew your pencap for a moment before deciding to go for it.

_**Ink** : Erotica. _

You hear the vague sound of choking, and feel excitement between your legs and in your throat.

Because at this point you’re almost certain this pierced peen is the same as your pierced god.

_**Apadravya** : More virtual intimacy? Or based on personal experience? _

You blush reflexively, resolving that, at this stage in your non-relationship, it would not be wise to tell him most of your personal experience of late has involved a little purple vibrator.

And visions of his face between your legs.

_**Ink** : of course, like most things. _

_**Apadravya** : A vague answer. Surely you could elaborate. _

You glance over your shoulder one more time to see the man you hope might live behind the words hunched over intently, his eyes focused and his hands for once stilled.

As if he can feel your gaze this time, he looks over, your eyes meet and you can't control the flood of wetness in your sex.

You stare at him meaningfully for a moment, answering the silent question, and then bow your head to type, looking up again the moment the words make their way across the screen.

_**Ink** : As much as I'm a fan of virtual intimacy, perhaps I could elaborate in person? _

As soon as you hit enter, his head is buried in his screen again, and the timing cannot be a coincidence. He looks up and quirks that steel-hooped eyebrow in your direction again, a smirk that looks like sin lilting softly across his mouth.

_**Apadravya** : Perhaps. _

Your pulse rises, and you get delirious with possibility; or at least that is the only explanation you can think of for what your hands type next without your bidding.

  
  


At just that moment, the house lights turn on again, and all of the false intimacy of a conversation in the dark dissolves, too impermanent and ethereal to withstand the harshness of the glare.

You duck your head down, all your fierceness gone except the fierceness of the shame. Within moments, your laptop is packed up, and you leave via the other end of the row for once. You don't try to squeeze past him or look at him. You don't watch for him to wink at you.

And you definitely don't try to feel him up to see if there's a piercing in his peen.

\---

Nine o'clock comes and goes, and you are sitting in your apartment alone, a new story about a woman taking a man with a frenulum ladder in her throat open on the docs and a pint of Caramel Dulce at your side. You stare at the carton, wondering how many more nights like this you will have to spend before you become too chubby to ever have any hope of attracting the elusive hubby.

It is almost midnight when the doorbell rings, your heart leaps into your throat and a jolt of excitement runs down to your abdomen. You close your laptop without a second thought, and you are at the door in an instant, the handle turning easily and all your hope pinned on just one sight.

And for once, you aren’t disappointed.

Your fantasy stands before you, black hair with grey tips in its usual form, metal and ink on full display, a thin grey t-shirt showing all the curves of muscle you have never had a chance to observe in close proximity before, and you cannot breathe.

"It’s..," you whisper, realizing for the first time that you don't even know his name.

But it doesn't really matter because you feel like you know everything else about him.

His face is a mask of surprise as he takes in the sight of you. Your breathing catches as you exhale jerkily, uncertain if he is about to run or if this was what he expected. If he knew it would be you when he made the decision to pursue.

All the doubt erases itself when that heavy, steel-laced eyebrow raises up appreciatively instead of scornfully and he enters your dorm the way you hope he will enter your body.

Forcefully. Confidently.

"You," he echoes huskily, kicking the door closed behind him, and he is so close.

You take in the scent of him as his body hovers close to yours, mere inches of static and wanting separating you guys, and you whimper from the proximity, head swimming with need and desire. With an absolute air of certainty, he stalks forward as you slink back. Those same six inches of space following as you unwittingly lead him into your space.

You stop when your ass hits the back of the couch, and you pause, breathing quickened at the proximity. You are shocked to find your own hand reaching up and forward, the tips of your fingers grazing, as they have so often dreamed of doing, over the row of piercings in his eyebrow, down the line of his jaw and to his lip. He darts his tongue out at just that moment, the pointed tip painting a short, wet line across your fingers, and you moan.

And then he's on you.

He grabs your hand away from his mouth and pushes it forcefully into the hair you’ve been so desperate to touch these many weeks, and it's softer than you ever imagined. His mouth tastes like blood and fire as it descends on yours, lips entangled and breathing mixed, his lust and desire clear from the hardness pressed against your stomach and from the tang of longing on his lips.

You feel the palm of his hand trace its way down and away from your hand, descending firmly, roughly over your arm, to your shoulder and back again. Tugging at the buttons, he slides the fabric of your cardigan away from your chest and off your shoulder, his hand trailing roughly over the naked, inked flesh that is revealed.

Breaking his kiss, you move your mouth wetly over his skin, over the line of his jaw and to the metal loops in his ear, letting the barbell on your tongue tease them as your breath washes hot across his face.

"Do you know how long I've wanted to lick you here?" you pant, and his hands seize your arms more tightly, bringing you even harder into contact as his hips push into yours.

The crème colored sweater you were originally wearing was now heaped on the floor, his hands ripping it from your body, as you stood there in a tank top and jeans, and it is still too much. Too much fabric in between because you want all of him against all of you.

"Every fucking day," he swears, and it's only the second time you’ve heard his voice, rough and musical and deep.

His mouth begins a long and steady assault on your neck, the hot trail of his tongue across your pulse making you shiver and sweat as your nails dig into his back.

"Every fucking day you sneak by me and don't even give me a second look. It's all I can do not to grab you and make you sit on my lap instead of across the row from me."

“God, I wish you would have. Fuck!" you cry out as his teeth dig hard into the flesh just below the line of your tank top, into the soft rise of your breast, into the head of the dragon that wraps all the way around the bosom till the ribs. "Why didn't you?"

"Remember? Fire and venom online," he whispers, pushing down the cup of your bra to tease your nipple and groaning when he tastes the steel of the horseshoe through the rosy flesh.

"Self-conscious and speechless IRL?" you actually laugh as you say it, your hands gripping his hair and pushing his face against your flesh. "I have a hard time believing that at the moment."

He pulls away from your tit and stands to his full height again, capturing your head in both his firm hands, kissing you harshly as he groans into your mouth, "Believe it. Right up until you blurred the lines."

The two of you kissed so roughly, so passionately. His hands are on your hips, lifting you up until your ass settles on the back of the couch, the apex of your thighs lined up perfectly with the steel in his jeans. He settles there, bodies making hard pulsing motions against each other through your clothes. Each thrust of his denim-covered cock against your center awakens a new blossom of pleasure, your head dropping backward until it feels like you’re floating, teetering, falling.

Only he catches you. Just as you are about to fall backward, you’re wrapped up in his arms, held close against the muscles of his chest, your breasts heaving into him with every breath.

"Careful, Ink," he breathes into your ear, and you clutch at his back harder as your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him into you.

"____," You correct him.

"____," he repeats, groaning as he pushes against your pussy again with your legs secured around his body. "Beautiful."

Your hands drift from his back, up and over his shoulders and down his arms, as he begins to stroke his fingertips over your thighs from your knees to your hip and back again. His skin under your touch is so warm, your hands tracing black curls of ink on pale skin, an abstract pattern that resolves itself into a great horned owl.

"Beautiful, indeed," you pant before he captures your mouth again. You begin to push at the hem of his t-shirt, desperate to see what the curls of ink evolve into beneath the fabric.

He shifts your body in closer to him, still taking care not to let you fall. His hands let go of your body for just a moment to lift his arms up over his head as you pull his clothing from him, revealing the upper half of his body and his art.

You only have a moment to take in the kanji character over his heart before he is pulling your own shirt up and over your head, your vision blinded for just an instant by the fabric over your eyes. You reach behind your own body to unclasp your bra, letting him push the straps down your arms as he kisses wet lines over the bare skin of your one uninked shoulder, moving softly across your collarbone and ribs and down and back again to your breast.

"I love this," he speaks into the pale, clean flesh before sucking hot across your ribs to the other side.

To your ink.

"And I love it all the more because of this." He traces even further down your body, pulling his hips away from yours, and you whimper at their loss.

You feel unsteady again, light-headed from want, and it's been so long since you’ve had a man touch you. Since you’ve had a man inside you.

You brace yourself with one hand on the edge of the couch by your side while the other scratches at his scalp, caressing the untamed mess of his hair as it slips softly through your fingertips. His mouth descends over your stomach, his tongue dipping into your navel, on a straight line to your clit, and you’re impossibly wetter, impossibly more ready for him to fill you. To satiate the hunger.

And after so many months of virtual intimacy, you’re desperate for this to be real.

With his teeth and hands, he teases apart the button of your fly, pulling down the zipper and revealing the lacy black line of your underwear. He licks and sucks his way to your hip as his long hand palms your abdomen on the other side, his thumb skirting under the edge of the lace and descending lower until it meets bare, wet flesh, grazing your clit as he parts your folds.

"Fuck, ___, you're dripping," he curses, his head all but collapsing into the joint between your hip and thigh.

"For you," you moan. "I've been wet for weeks just from seeing you."

He snarls again and rips the hem of your jeans down, tearing them from your body to leave you in just your panties, pushing your naked thighs up and over his shoulders so his head is nestled between them, just where you want him.

You can barely contain the hysterical tone of your breathing, the fast, short pants which echo your absolute need to feel his hands and mouth on you.

In you.

All over you.

Inhaling deeply, reverently, he runs the tip of his nose over the lace edge of your panties where your sex meets your thigh, and you can't breathe. He wraps one hand around your leg while the other creeps back behind your body to hold your ass in place, keeping you from squirming or retreating or falling as he peels the soaked fabric to the side, revealing your bare pussy to him. His thumb descends onto your clit, and a pulse of sheer need and desire and pleasure rockets through you from the first direct contact he's had with your swollen flesh; You all but scream. He circles it with a firm pressure, staring up at you with those eyes that you have coveted. 

And then he kisses you.

There.

The moans that spill through your lips don't even sound like you as you are reduced to a writhing mass of sheer sexual need, his lips entangled with your lips, his thumb working your clit as his tongue darts out to taste you, entering you. He traces the edges of your entrance with it before licking forcefully inside, and you feel the pressure rising, everything building until you're exploding, your thighs clenching around his face, your entire body in flame until you are ash .

You fall over the edge.

And then you actually fall over.

When your mind re-enters your body, you find yourself draped out over the back of the couch, your neck twisted awkwardly with the top of your head just grazing the seat cushion and your arms draped limply over your head while your thighs are still anchored to his shoulders. He stares down at you, quizzical and satisfied, and you are all over him, his mouth practically coated in your essences. You start to laugh at just how similar his look resembled that of an owl, but it dies down as you see him smirk at you, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

He stands up, leaving you like that, awkwardly fallen, as he peels your panties down your body, leaving you completely naked for him and unable to rise. He runs a finger along your opening, your body still pulsing and singing one of the most intense orgasms of your life as he dips gently inside.

"Is this what you want, baby? My fingers inside you?"

And you don't know how to respond, because it is and it isn't. If he just fucked you with his hands for the rest of your life, you could probably die happy, but damn if you don't want more. You want his cock inside of you, want him hovering over as he groans into your ears all the while your fingers tracing his ink as he thrusts into you.

"Yes. No. God, your cock."

He quirks that pierced brow up again, still on his knees with his fingers buried in you. "You want my cock?"

"Yes," you pant.

"Where?"

And even though you know exactly where you want him, fuck if you care at that moment. You just need it. "My hand. My mouth. Between my tits. My pussy. Everywhere."

Your thighs vibrate with the force of the growl he presses into them, and his fingers are gone, your body empty. Then he uses one hand to secure your hips to his body and to the back of the couch, rising and sliding your slick sex all over the line of his torso until his erection is pressed against you again.

Leaning down over you, he scoops your limp body up and presses it to his, kissing you with such acute need, you can scarcely stand it, feeling how hard and long and desperate he is as his body grinds against your core.

"How would I take you if you were writing this?" he breathes into your mouth, and your mind races with the possibilities.

You push him off wordlessly, and he looks at you like you’ve rejected him when really all you need is the space to slide your ass off the couch and to drop to your knees.

He groans deeply as you run your own nose over the thick line of his cock through his jeans, feeling it twitch into your face with his need. With your hands, you pull his pants and boxers away, finally revealing his cock, long, hard, thick and covered in precum.

Even the long, chrome piercing through the head of his cock is slick with it.

"Apadravya, indeed," You mutter, breathing across the length and making it throb in your hands. You feel the weight of it, the softness of his skin over the thick firmness within.

"Actually, it's Bokuto," he chuckles, panting.

He has a look of intense concentration on his face, one arm braced against the back of the couch, liquid amber eyes watching you intently, silently begging.

"Bokuto" you breathe, blowing hot across the tip of him, and he groans, his other hand dropping to the back of your head and gently urging you forward.

"I want to feel your mouth on me," he groans, and who are you deny?

You open your mouth wetly, closing your lips over the head of him, letting your tongue ring trace the underside of the head, the metal there and the flesh.

"Fuck, ___." He groans out your name

You pull off of him before you can take him too deeply, letting your mouth part as you run it all down the underside of him, wetting him and pushing your nose into the trimmed hair around his balls. He's practically whimpering, so you pump him twice with your hand, moving the moisture over him before plunging him all the way into your mouth, relaxing your throat. But even still, you can't fit all of him, and you rub your thighs together hungrily, knowing how perfect he'll feel when he finally fucks you.

You suck up and down repeatedly, achingly slowly, and can feel his pleasure and his frustration in the repressed motion of his hips. You can tell he wants to move, wants to fuck your mouth, but you hold him off of you, letting his hand guide you but keeping his hips still. His legs positively shake, and you know he's close, so you pull off, leaving him panting, his length naked and throbbing.

Kissing the sharp bone of his hip, you pull his pants the rest of the way off of him as he toes off his shoes. Before you can throw the jeans off into the pile with the rest of the clothing, he stops you, saying huskily, "Back pocket."

You look up at him through narrowed eyes as you retrieved the little foil package, noting for future reference that there are at least two more in there. Either the boy must have amazing recovery time or he was planning to stay a while. Both possibilities excite you.

A small smirk plays on your lips and you sit on your heels, back pressed against the couch and cock in hand.

"Whatever might we need this for?" you mutter, gazing at him with innocent eyes.

He tugs at your hair almost violently to lift you back to standing before crashing his mouth back onto yours, pulling away just long enough to growl in your ear, "So I can fuck the hell out of you with a clear conscience."

At that, he grabs the package from your hand, tearing it neatly and rolling the length of it over his cock from tip to base. He pushes his sheathed length against your hip, so close to your sex.

Naked bodies pressed together without an inch of space, and you are were delirious again with want.

With  _ desire _ .

"Turn," he commands, pushing at your shoulder, and you do. His hands shove you down, roughly and yet gently, bending you from the waist and positioning your elbows on the back of the couch. When he has you where he wants you, he settles those hands firmly on your shoulder blades, a searing presence that threatens to melt right through your skin and burn him onto you permanently.

As one, his hands move so slowly down to your sides, over your ribs, waist and hips, just to settle on your ass, rubbing it appreciatively. The edges of his fingers graze your lips, parting them, and your whole body jerks backward to feel the scalding hot flesh of his cock resting against your folds.

"Wider, baby," he coos, the backs of his hands sliding over swollen flesh and then to the insides of your dripping thighs.

You close your eyes, overwhelmed by so much sensation and do as you are told, spreading your legs for him and feeling him settle there, his knees bent between yours as the tip of his cock runs from clit to the back of your slit, thickly brushing against but not penetrating your entrance.

"God, Bokuto, please," you pant, ready to beg. You need him so badly.

But apparently, he's not beyond begging, himself.

"Please let me fuck you," he whispers in your ear, that same motion again of his length drawing itself over your wet flesh, dipping just a little bit deeper to part your lips but not filling your need.

"Yes," you groan, and he does.

Finally,  _ finally  _ you feel the head of his cock pressing hard against your entrance, slipping into your inch by glorious inch and nothing has ever felt this intense.

"Fuck, yes," you moan, his one hand gripping hot at your hip while the other wraps around the back of your neck, keeping you steady.

And it's so fucking hot not to be able to move, even though all you want to do is rock backwards and pull him into you more fully.

“Look straight” he rumbles

You look and moan at the sight in front of you. There, your full-length body mirror shows the way his biceps flex as they grip the back of your neck. The way his piercing eyes take you in.

Your body stretches as he keeps pressing forward, achingly slowly until he's fully seated inside you, his hips flush with your bottom, and you exhale. There is a deep and delicious pang inside your body as he rocks back slightly and surges forward again, the combined power of his huge length and the hot tip of metal banging up against the walls of your pussy, makes you crazy with need.

He then lifts you up, and you both moan this time as the mirror now shows his length disappearing and reappearing from within your hole.

“Fuck baby, look at the way your greedy little hole takes me in”

You mewl at the dirty words he was whispering in your ear. A chorus of 'yes' and 'fuck me's, spilt from your lips and before long, he was finally obeying you, finally fucking you with abandon, his body thrusting harshly, faster and faster. It's almost to the point of pain except it feels so good. He tightens his grip on your hip, his other hand sliding to the middle of your back, pushing down, and you feel his movement getting more erratic, less steady, so close to coming inside of you.

But you don't want it to be this way.

Not after all this time.

"No, stop," you breathe. He freezes in an instant, a pained sound erupting out of him.

"Please, Jesus, baby, you can't - "

You look over your shoulder at him, clenching your walls around him, making him moan. You shake your head when you see the look of absolute rejection and frustration on his face.

"After all this time watching you," you whisper, meeting his eyes, "I just - I need to see you, Bokuto... I need to  _ see _ you come."

You gasp as he pulls out in an instant, turning you around, lifting you roughly until you feel the edge of the couch pressing against your ass again. With one hand supporting your back, he parts your thighs roughly, stepping into them and sliding in all over again, and you scream.

His face is so close to yours as he starts to move inside you again, quick short thrusts that start to build, your bodies finding a new rhythm. Your sweaty brows collide, his three metal hoops scratching against your skin, but you can't begin to care, his name spilling through your lips as you both watched each other. He leans in, taking over your mouth as well and you think you could die in his lips, his body buried in yours, the swirling lines of ink knowing no ending and no beginning, surrounding you both.

His patience begins to wear, and he kisses you harder, his body pushing more insistently into yours. You feel the fiery bloom of pleasure building again, hot intensity and need and desire, and you want him hard and fast again, a deep physical connection without restraint.

He must feel your need too as he quickens his pace. "Hold on, baby," he instructs, and you do.

It’s all you can do. Your arms and legs wrapping around him tightly so he can brace his arms on the back of the couch, drilling into you, his pubic bone hitting your clit with every thrust, the metal of his piercing hitting hard against your spot and you  _ spiral _ , hovering just on the edge of release.

"I'm coming, Fuck, ____ f-fuck," he moans, his face displaying pleasure as he slams into you even harder, the intensity of his motions and his words sending you into your own oblivion, your body pulsing with his, white and light flashing hot across your eyes and mingling with the vision of him. Of him in  _ your _ arms, in the  _ throes _ of ecstasy.

The knowing that  _ you _ caused this man to lose control like that, to bring him such pleasure, causes trembles to course through your body.

The sound of cicadas slowly fills the room. The sound of the distant cars lull the two of you to return to your senses slowly.

You both tremble, as his cock twitches slightly inside of you and your heart racing as the two of you softly kiss. After a few moments of gentle caressing and relaxing, he pulls out, slipping off the condom and disposing of it in a wastebasket beside the couch.

He looks at the pile of clothes and then back at you. And you feel his indecision. To stay or to go. You feel like your entire connection hangs in the balance. A pattern the two of you will set in this moment that will propel you guys forward into whatever does or does not bloom.

And oh how you want it to bloom.

You bite your lip, still naked and balanced on the edge of the couch, before sliding down to set your shaky legs firmly on the floor. He watches silently as you approach, apprehensive even. Like maybe you will ask him to go.

You don't.

Instead, you hold your hand out, deciding to be fiery and fierce in your own life and not just in that of imaginary people on a glowing screen.

"Stay with me," you whisper, your hand against the characters that cross his heart.

He nods and lets you pull him into your arms. Before picking you up. A small shiver runs through you and you feel his chest rumble as he lets out a small laugh,

“Someone’s got a muscle kink huh” Bokuto teases, following your finger towards the direction of your room.

You roll your eyes and lean over, flicking the lights off.

“Whatever owl boy, don’t think I didn’t notice the mirror kink”

He shoots you a bashful smile before covering the two of you with the blanket. You sigh contently, head resting on his shoulder. Hushed voices fill the room as the two of you talk. Talk about anything and everything your fingertips traced the lines of ink and muscle at his side. Soon he dozed off and just before sleep took over you, you contemplated the merits of virtual intimacy versus personal experience.

Your answer?

Perhaps people should blur that line.

**Author's Note:**

> So what do you think? I hope you liked it and I cannot wait to write more in this fandom,
> 
> Constructive cristism is welcomed!
> 
> Feel free to connect with me via socials at:
> 
> insta: @adraxsetimera
> 
> Commission/Requests: adraxsetimera@gmail.com


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